


annealing

by curiositykilled



Series: a small clock seen faintly [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bechdel Test Fail, Broken Families, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, F/F, Families of Choice, Gen, I'm so sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-17
Updated: 2015-01-17
Packaged: 2018-03-07 22:07:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3184964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiositykilled/pseuds/curiositykilled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>n. a process of heat treatment for reducing the degree of hardness of metal to give it maximum malleability or ductility; to free from internal stress by heating and gradually cooling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	annealing

                It’s nearly three weeks before she actually takes the Barneses up on Becca’s offer. By then, she’s in town for work, transferring files from the dying SSR to SHIELD’s database. It’s strictly secretarial, but the files aren’t ones she wants just everyone looking into: they’re from the war - the Howling Commandos, specifically. Thumbing briefly through the fat manilla folders, she swallows at a particularly brutal brief.

                Unsurprisingly, it’s Barnes’.

                _“And how exactly did you get this...operative to cooperate?” she’d asked, elbow leaning on the desk’s edge and spine stiff._

_He’d sat half-sprawled in the chair opposite her, eyes cool and distant. Despite his lazy slouch, there’d been a tension running through him like a live-wire, some distant warning buzz humming off him._

_“Charm,” he’d drawled._

_His voice was cocky, unbothered, but his expression remained shuttered._

_“Please elaborate, Sergeant Barnes,” she’d prompted, “unless you wish to write this yourself.”_

_He’d glanced down at his bandaged hand, almost in surprise, and blinked before turning his chilly gaze towards her._

_“You really wanna’ know, Agent?” he’d asked, reluctant._

_“I am no schoolgirl, Barnes,” she’d snapped. “Now, tell me.”_

                She closes it with a sharp jerk of her wrist. She could stomach death, war, torture, but there had been something stomach-churningly unsettling in the flat glaze that had fallen over his eyes as he outlined the ‘charm’ he’d used on their late prisoner. She hadn’t offered to write any other briefs for him again, and she’d spent the rest of that week doing her utmost to keep Steve from him. To her surprise, Barnes hadn’t uttered a word of protest; if anything, he seemed inclined to help her keep them apart.

                Now, standing in a half-empty office in the small, dusty building that houses the remains of their war, she wonders at that, at Barnes’ needle-riddled exterior and his Achilles’ heel the exact size and shape of Steve Rogers. _“Buck would’ve gone to Hell for that kid.”_ It’s one of few things she knows to be true about him.

                Her stomach gives a quiet grumble of protest, and she starts. It’s only eight, and the memory of Becca’s invitation tugs uncertainly at her attention. Locking the files into her briefcase, she nods to the men on her way out and pauses at a payphone to dial up the number Becca had written onto a napkin and pressed into Peggy’s palm nearly a month prior.

                “Hello, Barneses,” a chipper voice answers.

                “Hello, this is Peggy Carter,” she replies cautiously. “Is Rebecca there?”

                There’s a pause and the sound of a stifled yawn before the other end is suddenly muffled, as if pressed against something. It does little to mask the shout of “Becca! Phone!” that’s belted out. Shifting her weight into both feet, Peggy waits and surveys the street ahead of her. It’s busy, of course, because no matter how late New York stays up, it can never quite escape its commuters’ early mornings.

                “Hello, Rebecca Proctor speaking.”

                “Hello, it’s Peggy - Carter,” Peggy repeats.

                “Hi, Peggy. What can I do for you?” Becca queries, voice even.

                Her tone is closer to the one she used as the reception stretched on, still controlled and contained but warmer, like half-thawed ice. Peggy takes it as a good sign.

                “I’m in New York for the weekend, and I was wondering if - well, if your invitation to breakfast still stood,” she explains, ears trained on the steady breathing barely audible over the line.

                “Of course,” Becca affirms immediately. “We’d love to have you. Do you need the address?”

                Peggy glances down at the files hidden within her briefcase. Each of the Commandos’ profiles is in there, names, ages, and next of kin listed in neat typeset.

                “No, I think I have  it,” she answers. “Brooklyn, still?”

                “The Old Homestead, yeah,” Becca agrees lightheartedly. “Alright, well, I’ll see you when you get here.”

                They trade goodbyes, and then Peggy’s standing there staring at the black case at her feet. It’s nothing to shuffle through them for Barnes', but she still feels a pinch of guilt. These are meant to be top-secret,  classified files, not her personal address book. Barnes' next of kin is messy, the type overwritten with sharp pen strokes and angular writing,  and Peggy frowns reading it. _~~Steve Rogers 40 Water St., Brooklyn, NY, 11201~~_ and next to it _Rebecca Barnes 161 Carlton Ave, Brooklyn, NY 11201._ She pauses,  studying it, and feels a tickle at the back of her neck like a puzzle piece falling into place in a mostly-empty frame. She shakes it off and locks the files away again before hailing a cab.

She's let out in front of a funeral parlor, its storefront windows trimmed in a grey-blue that complements the orange bricks and matches the Barnes’ eyes. Running through her memories of Barnes, Peggy finds only a few morbid quips about undertakers and nothing about living above a funeral home. Still, the sign reads “Barnes’ Funeral Parlor” in crisp cream script. She pushes the door open.

                The interior walls are a clean off-white that matches the awning’s font, the floor a dark green that matches the drapes hanging in restrained drapes on either side of the windows, and Peggy casts a cursory glance around the parlor. It’s clean in a way no home is, walls washed and windows speck-free, and there’s something in the solemnity of the dark-wooded furniture and carefully placed seats that weighs on her. The overwhelming hush does nothing to help.

                Abruptly, though, it’s broken: footsteps tap-tap-tap down unseen stairs and then across a short expanse of wood before a young man appears around the corner of the wall far to Peggy’s right. He’s lean and tall with dark curly hair and equally dark eyes, and his expression is sober, if warm. Even in trousers and cuffed sleeves, he exudes professionalism.

                “Welcome,” he greets. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

                “I’m actually here for Rebecca,” she explains, bolstering herself with a silent reminder that she was invited here. “She invited me over for breakfast.”

                The change is immediate. Where his young features had been sympathetic and serious a moment before, they change into an easy grin and warm brown eyes as his shoulders relax.

                “Oh, you must be Agent Carter!” he exclaims. “Yeah, come on up.”

                She follows as he turns back the way he came, shoes tapping back up the wooden staircase.

                “Sorry, we didn’t get to meet at the wedding, I don’t think,” he explains. “Just heard the door and figured it was a customer.”

                “No, we didn’t,” she agrees politely. “Do you frequently get customers at eight thirty in the morning?”

                Reaching the top of the stairs, he shrugs and pushes open the door at the top.

                “Death’s not on a schedule,” he replies. “I’m Pat, by the way. Don’t think I introduced myself.”

                “Peggy,” she answers, accepting his extended hand.

                “Pleasure to meet you, Peggy,” he says with a grin, giving her hand a firm shake before leading the way into the Barnes’ home.

                It is at once a direct recall of the parlor below and an entirely different world. The floor is smooth hardwood, polished both by repeated wear and by careful upkeep, and the furniture in the living room is of a similar make if an older model as the set in the downstairs. However, as Pat leads the way into the kitchen, the similarity rapidly dissolves.

                “-ly twenty-one!” a semi-familiar voice protests. “I’m not a spinster yet!”

                “I’d had three children and moved across the world by the time I was your age,” another, accented one replies. "Just look at Miri!"

"Oh, no, I am not getting pulled into this again-"

                “C’mon, you two,” Becca’s voice enters, clearly distinguishable by the faint amusement and the milder tone. “It’s breakfast. Not the time for fighting."

                "'specially when we've got company," Pat adds as they enter the kitchen. “Everybody, this is Peggy Carter.”

                The cabinets are white-washed, the checked tile impeccable, but the kitchen’s inhabitants are comfortingly human. Becca’s wrapped in a dark dressing gown, hair loosely coiled but still unstyled; Naomi’s in a nightgown with a cardigan thrown overtop; the sandy-haired man with his arm around Becca’s waist is only as dressed as Pat. Only one girl, Miriam, if Peggy had to guess, is fully dressed, and even then, she’s wearing simple, well-worn clothes that would hardly be acceptable out of the home.

                “Peggy!” Naomi exclaims, beaming. “Fancy seeing you here.”

                “I invited her,” Becca answers, stepping out of her husband’s embrace and around the table to Peggy. “Here, I’ll take you coat since _someone_ didn’t think of that.”

                It’s said with a pointed and joking glare at her brother, and Pat lifts his hands palm-out in mock surrender.

                “Sor _ree_ ,” he drawls.

                He’s smiling in a fond way that matches the girls’ own expressions, and Peggy can’t help but feel cold and apart, like the buttons on her coat are a fence against their warmth and geniality. She undoes them cautiously.  Becca whisks her coat and case away, vanishing into the hall.

               "Here, there’s a spot next to me," Naomi offers eagerly, rising.

               "That's my spot," Pat protests half-heartedly.

               "I don't want to intrude," Peggy starts.

               Becca sweeps back in, then, and scoffs before shooing them all towards the table at the back of the room. There are seven of them but eight seats, but everyone seems to know where to go: Naomi on Miriam’s right, Becca’s husband on her left, a seat beside him for Becca, and so on. Peggy ends up on Naomi’s left, Pat beside her and an empty seat between him and Becca. Their mother sits down at the head of the table, between Miriam and Becca’s husband.

               "Oh, where are our manners," she laughs apologetically. "I'm Winifred, you've met those four, and this is Ben, our Becca’s husband."

               "It's a pleasure to meet you," Peggy replies with a polite smile. "James always spoke very fondly of you."

               The change is immediate. Winifred's hand, which had been patting Ben's gently, grips onto his like talons. Where Miriam had been chattering under her breath with Naomi, their mouths snap shut. Becca’s hand fists on the table; Pat shoots a demanding look at her.

               "Yes. Well," Winifred breaks the silence stiffly, smile rigid on her lips. "Well, here we are letting breakfast go cold. Eat up, eat up!"

               The family jerks into motion like a wind-up doll stopped midstep,  and it takes a few minutes of silent chewing for them to regain their ease. The pancakes are as good as Becca claimed, light and fluffy with buttermilk flavoring them sweet and rich, and perhaps it's because she hasn't eaten pancakes in years or perhaps there’s a secret ingredient in Winifred's recipe, but Peggy finds herself wishing absently that breakfast would always be like this. The sentiment seems to be shared: as the pancakes disappear, the conversation returns.

               "You were Stevie’s girl during the war, weren’t you?” Winifred asks. “Such a shame.”

               Peggy smiles politely, tightly. She’s never learned how to answer questions like these, where the intent is right but the wording so incredibly wrong.

               “He was a sweet boy,” Winfired muses. “Terribly frail but with the biggest heart. He was just about a brother to these kids, you know.”

               “Only brother I ever had to beat a guy up for,” Becca adds drily, and Miriam snorts in laughter while their mother gives a disapproving look.

               “He did seem to have a problem with running away,” Peggy agrees.

               “I remember, one time, finding him half-passed out ‘gainst a trash can,” Miriam starts. “Ran all the way to the docks to get help and the whole way home, he kept tellin’ us that he was fine and didn’t need any help. We ‘bout had to carry him up the stairs.”

               Ben chuckles quietly, glancing down at the table before catching Becca’s eye.

              “That time we all went to O’Malley’s?” he prompts.

                Becca freezes before she starts laughing, shoulders shaking, and Ben grins in triumph.

              “Oh Lord,” she gasps. “I swear, you were white as a ghost - thought you’d never take me out again.”

              They’re shaking their heads at the memory, and Peggy finds herself in good company as she waits for the rest of the story; around the table, each face is curious and half-smiling - except Winifred’s. Her lips are thinned and narrowed gaze focused on Becca.

               “He fought for good reasons,” she sniffs tersely, “same as the ones he died for.”

               That works perfectly: the rest of the table sobers up as if dunked in ice water. Becca, though, turns towards her mother with hard blue eyes and hackles raised. Out of the corner of her eye, Peggy catches Ben’s hand slipping into Becca’s and gently tucking them under the table. As pacifiers, it seems to work somewhat but hardly completely.

               “He got in fights for plenty of reasons,” she retorts. “Doesn’t make him any less of a good guy.”

               After that, the conversation grinds until it settles on Pat’s classes at City College and then slides smoothly onto the other siblings’ weeks. James’ name is never mentioned and Becca stays tight-lipped and silent. As soon as they finish, the younger siblings jump up to help clean, and Ben leans over to murmur something in Becca’s ear that makes her glance away, lips pursed. He hesitates a moment longer before kissing the crown of her head and standing.

               “I could use some air. Peggy?” Becca invites with false humor, standing.

               She leads the way through the living room to the fire escape, and once out there, she fishes out a pack of cigarettes before leaning against the rail. The pack’s full, though the corners are worn soft. As if as an afterthought, she tips the package questioningly towards Peggy.

               “Thank you, but I don’t smoke,” Peggy demurs.

               “Yeah, me neither,” Becca says, toying with the cigarette.

               They stand in silence for a few moments, Becca staring unseeing at the street below and Peggy watching her nimble fingers flip the cigarette around and over.

               “Sorry about in there,” Becca finally offers. “Usually manage to keep the skeletons in the cupboard till lunch at least.”

               It’s said self-deprecatingly, like she should know better, and Peggy hums softly in acknowledgement before leaning against the railing beside Becca. Cars pass occasionally, but this is a residential neighborhood for the most part, and most families are still inside.

               “I shouldn’t have brought your brother up,” Peggy admits, careful to avoid his name.

               The bark of laughter Becca gives is brittle and harsh.

               “It’s a fucking stupid rule,” she mutters sharply. “He’s our damn brother and a war hero - and we can’t even say his name in our house.”

              “You - pardon?” Peggy queries, startled.

               Of course it had been noticeable, the gaping holes in their conversation where one five letter name belonged, but a ‘rule’?

               “Dad kicked Bucky out when he was nineteen, said he couldn’t come back till he decided to grow up and ‘be a man’. Told us he wouldn’t stand to hear ‘that name’ under his roof ever again,” Becca explains in a curt, harsh tone, and Peggy flinches.

               “Oh,” she manages softly.

               Becca laughs again, that same mirthless hack.

               “Yeah. Didn’t even let him come inside before he got sent over,” she mutters, hand flicking up to whisk across her cheek. “Told him he was ‘real proud’ and still couldn’t let his son come home. Bastard.”

               Peggy hesitates, painfully uncertain. She grew up with a distant but supportive grandmother who let her learn to shoot and drive as long as she also learned a proper lady’s graces. This turmoil is something she’s never been within a mile of - although, she supposes, that’s not quite right. She just didn’t know.

              “I am so sorry,” she tries, resting her hand gently on Becca’s shoulder.

               The taller woman shudders and leans into the touch.

               “S’not your fault,” she mutters before giving a wet laugh, “I swear, I’m not usually a crier.”

               “Me neither,” Peggy admits, “but sometimes you need to.”

               Sniffing, Becca gives a small smile and wipes at her cheeks.

               “What was he like?” Peggy asks on impulse. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

               “Bucky?” Becca checks, huffing a laugh when Peggy nods. “Oh lord.”

               She pauses a moment to collect her thoughts, hands back to twirling the cigarette like a miniature baton. Her tongue tip flicks out briefly to wet her bottom lip before catching the same spot with her teeth and holding it there, evidently lost to memory.

               “He was smart,” she starts. “I mean, you wouldn’t know it watching him follow Steve around, but he was top of his class every year. I’d swear on his grave he could speak six languages by the time he could walk, and there wasn’t a science article he hadn’t read. The girls didn’t seem to mind him jabbering on about them, but I could never tell if he picked them up ‘cause they were pretty or ‘cause they got on well; they never stayed long enough to know.”

               That, at least, is something Peggy remembers from her own experience: they didn’t get leave often, but when they did, the Commandos inevitably ended up at a bar or club. Barnes was always the first to have a girl on his arm.

              “I wish he’d gotten to go to college, least for a little bit. Ma said he had a gypsy heart - never able to settle down in case he was missing something somewhere else, so I dunno’ if he’d have stayed at all, but - well, I wish he’d gotten the chance,” she confesses. “He used to talk, when we were kids, about all these crazy ideas from those books he read. Flying cars and people on the moon - ridiculous things, y’know. Talked about that World Fair for _months_ \- drove us all nuts. ”

             She pauses again, worrying at her lip. When she continues, her gaze is directed downwards.

             “I know you didn’t see him like we did,” she admits, voice subdued. “War changes everybody, and Buck wasn’t any different. He tried to fake it in his letters, but - well, he was always a damn good liar until it came to me.”

              She scoffs a little at herself.

              “And now, here I am bragging. Lord alive,” she breathes.

               Despite the sobriety of the situation, Peggy can’t help a faint smile. Dropping her hand from Becca’s shoulder, she leans into the rail beside her instead.

               “I didn’t know him very well,” she admits. “I was around the Commandos far less frequently than that atrocious radio show would have you believe, and when I was, James was the last to speak to me. To be honest, it always seemed like he hated me. I...didn’t really care for him, either.”

               She confides the last bit cautiously, but Becca doesn’t so much as flinch.

              “I think he was the only one really able to handle Howard, though. The other boys didn’t mind him, but, well, he isn’t the easiest man to get along with. James, though,” she pauses, laughs. “I remember looking for Howard once, and they were trying to get some radio show to come in. We hadn't been able to find them for hours, and the whole time they’d been camped on the roof."

               She can still picture them: Howard with one sleeve rolled to his elbow and the other flapping loose, and James with a streak of grease across his forehead and a bright, childish grin.

              "Probably _Suspense_ ," Becca laughs. "He was hooked on that one."

               The name means nothing, but Peggy smiles at the fond exasperation in her voice. Before she can say anymore,  Ben pokes his head out the window. He pauses a moment, undoubtedly checking for potential explosives in their expressions. His gaze pauses on the cigarette pack before settling on Becca’s face.

               "Your mom wants to know if you're staying here today," he explains.

               Becca takes a deep breath and slides the cigarette back in its pack before tucking the whole thing away. She smiles, only a little fake, and straightens to lead the way inside.

               "I'm sure there's something pressing at home," she answers before turning to Peggy. "I really am sorry about this;  we thought it'd be nice for you to have an American family,  and here I ruined it."

               "No, I - I appreciate it,” Peggy replies hastily before pausing, fumbling for words. “I’m not in New York terribly often, but if I am again, or if you visit Washington - I’d love to get together, whether it’s you or the girls or everyone.”

               It’s not quite what she meant to say, but she can’t think of anything better. Can’t think of a way to tell Becca that she’s right, that her brother was a damn good liar and that war changes everyone but just because it rearranges their atoms doesn’t mean it swaps them out, that Peggy would welcome an American family, if only so she wasn’t so alone in this nation of hauntings.

               Becca’s lips spread slightly in a slow smile, and she ducks her head before glancing back up at Peggy.

              “Well. I’m sure we can work something out,” she agrees.

 

\---

               When she gets home that night, Peggy wraps her arms around Angie before the other woman has even had a chance to say hello and presses her nose against her neck.

               “Tough trip?” Angie asks, shifting slightly to lay her book down on the endtable beside her.

               Peggy breathes in slowly, relaxing into the scent of lilacs that always fills the air just above Angie’s skin.

               “Good trip,” she corrects, “but I’m glad to be home.”

             

  
  
  
  
  


               

               

 

               

 

**Author's Note:**

> voila! Part II. (That was actually its working title until tonight, so, welp.)
> 
> On one hand, I feel incredibly guilty about completely bombing the Bechdel Test when this entire thing is literally two women talking to each other. On the other hand, Bucky.
> 
> As always, I love to hear your comments/questions/etc, so feel free to post away! I'll try to reply to them ASAP.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
